


Time and Too Much Don't Belong Together Like We Do

by missparker



Series: Blood on the Floor [4]
Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: F/F, Family, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/missparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all, what is Sharon to her now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Too Much Don't Belong Together Like We Do

_I know I could be spending a little too much time with you_  
_but time and too much don't belong together like we do_  
_If I had all my yesterdays I'd give 'em to you too_  
_I belong to you, now_  
_I belong to you_

**I Belong To You - Brandi Carlile**

*

There’s a moment every morning - she wakes up and can’t remember where she is. It’s the easiest part of her day to be sure, that wave of confusion. But then, no. This is her own bed, Joel asleep, curled hard against her. This is her marriage bed, but her husband is cold and she’s no one’s wife anymore.

She wakes up reaching for Sharon but Sharon isn’t there and she thanks God that Fritz won’t ever know about that, either. What kind of woman does that make her? Her husband isn’t even in the ground and she’s already longing for someone else.

Her eyes fill with tears, though she was sure last night that she’d cried herself dry. 

She’s leaking still when she hears her father coming down the hallway. He knocks on the door and doesn’t wait for a response, just turns the knob and comes right in like he’d done her whole life. At age three, at sixteen, and now, deep into her 40s. There’s nothing for her to hide now, anyway, save for a few tears. She feels tired even though she’s just woken up and so she’s nothing but grateful when he hands her a mug of fresh coffee, still steaming. She sips at it and the brew is weak but her daddy had slipped in a little honey for her, which she appreciates and it warms her all the way down. 

“Did you sleep any, Brenda Leigh?” he asks. “You got a big day ahead of you.” 

“A little,” she says. She did, though it barely made a dent in the fatigue she’d contracted since learning that Fritz had collapsed. “I’ll be okay.” 

It feels like it’s been forever already, but Fritz has been dead six days and today is Saturday, the day of his funeral. 

“Of course you will,” Clay says, though he looks a little uncertain. After all, he’d lost his spouse too and he was clearly anything but okay with it. “Your brothers land in less than an hour. Will you be all right here alone while I go pick them up?”

“I can go with you, daddy,” she says. 

“There’s not enough room in the car for all of us,” Clay says. “You should stay here and… prepare.”

Prepare for what, she wonders. She’d seen the body at the hospital, had demanded to hysterically. Will had tried to stop her and she understood why - she’d tried to stop grieving families from seeing the bodies of their loved ones all the time, but it was different on the other side. 

It was Fritz, but it wasn’t. His face, his skin, his graying hair. The deep lines on his face, the wiry hair on his chest, strong thighs, round fingertips. But he’d been pale and still and empty and it hadn’t been him after all, anymore, and looking at him certainly hadn’t helped.

Sharon had driven her home after having an argument in hissing whispers with Will that Brenda had watched from afar with some detachment. Hysterics were hard to sustain long term so by the time Sharon had gotten her into the car, she’d been quiet. 

“What do I do?” she’d asked, finally.

“I’ll take you home,” Sharon had said, her voice even and distant. But that’s what she’d done. Brenda had been surprised to see that Sharon had taken her to the duplex, a place she hadn’t called home in at least two months. But it was hers, now, and Brenda found she was glad to be back. Glad to see the space, glad to pet the cat and feed him, glad to sink into the bed while she listened to Sharon down the hall say, “I know it’s late, Mr. Johnson but this is Captain Sharon Raydor, Brenda’s friend? Yes, yes, well, thank you, but sir, I’m sorry. I have some terrible news about your son-in-law…”

Sharon had done all the right things, of course. Put Brenda to bed, made phone calls. Emptied the cat box and set the coffee to brew for the morning. Fetched Clay from the airport and then she’d gone away. 

“I can stay,” Brenda promises her father now. 

“I’ll call your friend Sharon,” Clay says. “She left me her number. She can come set with you for a spell.”

Brenda wants this ferociously but is terrified of the very idea of being alone with Sharon or, worse, Sharon and Brenda and her father being together. Like Clay will see them together and know. 

“Daddy, no, that’s not necessary,” Brenda says.

“I think it is,” Clay says with some finality in his voice. “Drink your coffee darlin’ and take a shower. I’ll take care of things.”

It’s surprisingly easy to follow her father’s orders - far easier than having her own thoughts. She can sip at her coffee, she can push back the covers, she can turn on the shower to the muffled sound of her father’s voice in another room. She can make the water too hot and let it turn her skin rosy. She can rest her head against the cool tiles of the shower and close her eyes.

She can remember the shower with Sharon, the way her hands had slid over Brenda’s skin, how Brenda had parted her legs and Sharon had pressed a strong thigh between them, how the orgasm had surprised them both, how Brenda had never come so easily before. 

Her eyes snap open, wave after roiling wave of guilt making her feel nauseous and she heaves, the little bit of coffee coming up and swirling down the drain. She sticks her tongue out into the spray and rinses her mouth out and then sticks her whole head under. It burns, especially around her eyes where the skin is tender and swollen but when her hair gets wet and falls in front of her face, it blocks everything else out and all she can hear is the water tunneling around her, roaring in her ears. Steam and heat in her lungs makes her want to cough but she swallows it down and tilts her head back, water hitting her face.

She manages to shampoo and then condition but it’s hard to make herself shave her legs. That seems like an insurmountable task, so she bargains with herself. She’ll shave under her arms and wash her face and then she can be done.

When the shower squeaks off, she realizes that her Daddy is on the phone still or again and her heart hammers in her chest.

Will Sharon come here? Will she drop everything for Brenda or is that a favor that won’t be returned?

Soon, her brothers will fill this little duplex and Claire is supposed to arrive by noon. Claire had been quiet on the phone, had made careful plans to come to L.A., had said nothing more than, “Still sisters?” which had made both of them cry. Fritz was all Claire had had left as far as family went, after all, and Brenda feels for her - is happy she’s coming. 

She’s drying her hair with a towel when her daddy knocks on the bathroom door. This time he doesn’t open it. 

“I’m headin’ out,” he calls. “But your Captain Raydor is already on her way. Don’t fret, Brenda Leigh.”

“Thank you, daddy,” she says.

When Sharon arrives, Brenda has managed not much more than putting on a pair of Fritz’s boxer shorts and one of his huge t-shirts. Sharon had dropped off some things early on, maybe on the same night as the hospital or the next day, it’s hard to remember clearly. But she certainly doesn’t have the majority of her things. Her mama would’ve noticed straight away - the empty closets, the missing pictures, the neatness but her daddy hasn’t said one word about traces of Brenda being missing from this home. 

The doorbell rings and Brenda opens it even though her hair is still damp and she hasn’t even managed to put on a bra. 

Sharon looks so beautiful that it puts a lump in Brenda’s throat. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt and a black jacket, has thick black eyeliner on that makes her eyes turn the color of jade and her hair is pinned up into an elegant chignon - Brenda can count on one hand the times she’s seen Sharon with her hair done up. She looks polished and put together and Brenda realizes it’s because she’s going to the funeral. She’s also holding a garment bag.

“Did you have a case?” Brenda asks. Sharon smiles gently at her.

“Don’t worry about that,” Sharon says. She steps in, looks around but Brenda shakes her head.

“He’s already gone, don’t worry.” 

Brenda wants to press up onto the balls of her feet to kiss her, to let her lips slide against the expensive red lipstick that Sharon wears, but that isn’t what they do. Even now, even after they’ve kissed and petted and showered and fell right into that big, pillowy bed of Sharon’s. Even now, after Brenda had pressed her mouth right into Sharon’s center, hot and surprisingly sweet, she still can’t steal a kiss in the daylight. After all, what is Sharon to her now?

“I know you don’t have a lot here,” Sharon says, taking another step into the duplex, a little closer to Brenda. “I brought you something to wear.”

“Bring it here,” Brenda says and leads her back into the bedroom. Sharon is tall enough that bag doesn’t drag but it is bulky at the bottom and Brenda realizes that it’s probably shoes. Sharon lays the bag across the rumpled bed and pulls down the zipper to reveal a police uniform.

“I can’t-”

“That’s mine,” Sharon says. She eases the top hanger out of the bag and pulls the uniform away to reveal the black dress Brenda had worn last after they’d taken that day trip to Laguna Beach and they’d gone out to dinner after. It’s simple and demure and Brenda nods. 

“Thank you,” she says. “I… I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” 

Sharon reaches out but then pulls her arm back. “Brenda,” she says. “I’m not one hundred percent sure what’s appropriate here. I want to do whatever helps but I don’t want to… crowd you or your family.” She tries to smile but it comes out more like a grimace and it breaks Brenda’s heart, the idea that Sharon thinks she doesn’t belong. 

“I’d still be with you,” Brenda says. “I’d go back in a second if my father weren’t here, you have to know that.”

Sharon nods. “Okay.” She pulls the dress out. “I had this cleaned and I brought your black pumps, the pointy ones, the Kate Spades, and I packed up some of your makeup.” 

“Thank you,” Brenda says. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“Your father asked me to stay,” Sharon says. “Is that okay?”

Brenda nods. “More than,” she says. And then, because she can’t seem to help it, she says, “I miss you.” 

This time, Sharon does reach out all the way and grabs Brenda’s hand. Gives her fingers a squeeze and then drops it. 

“Have you eaten anything?” Sharon asks. 

Brenda shakes her head no. “Not hungry,” she says. “If you’re wearing your uniform, why are you all dressed up?”

“I’m not,” Sharon says.

“You were at work,” Brenda accuses. 

Sharon glances up, to the side, buying herself time to compose herself before looking back at Brenda. “I was. Nothing to go home to.” 

Before Brenda can process that, Sharon waves it away, a hand in the air. “I’ll make you something to nibble on, you’re going to want something in your stomach, trust me. Get dressed.”

She walks away and Brenda is alone again in the bedroom. She spends a few moments touching Sharon’s uniform - the ribbons, the buttons, the stiff dark fabric. She misses that life. She misses being a police officer, she misses the thrill of Major Crimes. When she was the one catching the criminals, not making deals with them, not figuring out how to negotiate with their lawyers, not pushing paperwork around. 

She’d been so jealous of Fritz when he’d told her that Taylor had offered him the S.O.B. job. So jealous he’d said yes. 

She pushes off the shorts and the big t-shirt and pulls on a clean pair of underwear, puts on the bra that Sharon had brought for her - her black one with the silver stitching and the padding that kept everything pushed up into place. The dress was modest, most of her clothing was, but it had a v-neck and she wanted everything to sit right. 

The dress feels a little loose and she knows that Sharon is right - she hasn’t been eating and she’ll feel better with something to nibble on. She catches herself in the mirror above the dresser and is startled. The black of the dress makes her look pale and washed out and she’d let her hair dry with nothing - no product or styling and now it’s a frizzy, kinky mess. She sees not herself but an unlovable stranger, a murderer. 

By the time Sharon comes back in with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, Brenda is sitting on the bed crying into her hands. 

Sharon sets the breakfast things on top of the dresser and rushes over, her heels against the hardwood floors speeding up as she moves to crouch in front of Brenda. She pulls Brenda’s hands away from her face and replaces them with her own, cradling Brenda’s chin in her palms. 

“You’re okay,” Sharon says. 

“No,” Brenda manages. “No, I killed him, Sharon, I did it.”

“No you didn’t,” Sharon says, her own voice breaking now. 

“I did - I left him here, I didn’t want him anymore and now he’s dead,” Brenda says. Her face feels so hot, she knows that her nose is running and she can barely see Sharon through her tears. “I killed him. I killed him.”

Sharon gathers her up, pulling Brenda into her arms. She doesn’t say anything else, just makes gentle shushing noises and pets Brenda’s hair, lets her cry into the shoulder of her expensive suit jacket. 

There’s something about Sharon’s smell that calms Brenda. It’s her shampoo and the sweet tang of her expensive makeup and it already feels like home. Brenda feels like she’s been away for a long time and has finally made it back. When her sobs have turned into hiccups and sniffs, Sharon pulls back and looks at her, drags her thumbs underneath Brenda’s eyes to clear some of the moisture away. 

“You’re not a murderer, Brenda,” Sharon says. “You loved him the best you could.”

“My best wasn’t good enough for him,” Brenda whispers. 

Sharon shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter anymore.” 

And though she shouldn’t because she’s still crying about her dead not quite ex-husband and because her nose is still running and because Sharon is here trying to ease her pain, she still leans in and presses her lips to Sharon’s red ones. Sharon allows this and when Brenda pulls back, gives her a sad smile. 

“I miss you, too, you know,” Sharon says. 

Brenda nods. “Good.”

oooo

It seems like everyone descends on the duplex at once. Claire arrives only a few moments before her daddy comes back with Jimmy, Clay Jr., and Bobby and to Brenda’s surprise, Charlie. Brenda hadn’t expected Charlie and seeing her makes Brenda start to cry again, but God, how is that even possible? Still, she throws her arms around her niece who hugs tightly back.

“You look so good,” Brenda says, her voice warbling. Charlie’s hair is shorter and she’s wearing a pretty summer dress, a navy one with cap sleeves and little gray flowers. “So grown up.”

“Thanks, Aunt Brenda,” Charlie says, and then. “I’m really sorry.” 

“Thank you, honey,” Brenda says. She hugs each of her brothers, even Clay Jr. who looks supremely uncomfortable to even be in California, let alone making contact with his sister. He pats her awkwardly and then pushes her away again. 

Claire is as solemn as Brenda has ever seen her. She’s wearing dark colors - flowy purples and teals, heavy jewelry and a dark black scarf around her neck. She stands right next to Brenda and must feel terribly out of place.

“Did y’all get checked in to the hotel okay?” Brenda asks. “I was thinkin’ the girls could just stay here at the house and you boys, and you daddy, could stay at the hotel while everyone is in town? Would that be okay?”

“If that’s what you want, honey,” Clay says. “You should finish getting ready. We’ll have to leave in an hour.” 

Her brothers are all in suits and dark ties and Clay had changed before he left. Brenda nods. 

“We’ll come help,” Charlie says, looking nervously at Claire. Brenda must look like she needs some help. Brenda looks around and realizes that Sharon hadn’t come out when the doorbell rang or when the men of the Johnson family had loudly spilled in. She’s still in the bedroom, hiding out. She’s not family, of course, and she’s not even Brenda’s colleague anymore. But she’s the person Brenda wants next to her most on this terrible day. She won’t make it through without Sharon. She won’t send her away. 

Claire and Charlie dutifully follow her down the hall and Brenda knocks lightly before she pushes open the bedroom door. Sharon is standing at the foot of the bed. Her lovely, tailored suit is gone and she’s in her slacks and is buttoning up her uniform shirt. She looks up and Brenda sees her features first smooth into nothing and then Sharon gives a polite smile. 

Claire and Charlie both stare unabashedly until Claire says, loudly, “Brenda there’s a police officer in your boudoir!” 

“Yes,” Brenda agrees. “This is my, uh-” What is Sharon? “My Captain Raydor.” 

Sharon closes her eyes briefly, as if pained, as if Brenda could never learn a single, simple lesson and it makes Brenda squirm. 

“Sharon Raydor,” she says. 

“Claire Howard,” says Claire, rushing forward and extending her hand. “I’m Fritz’s sister.”

It’s awkward for a beat - the name of the dead seems to hang in the air and they all hold their breath, waiting for it to pass. Brenda glances at Charlie who looks so uncomfortable that Brenda relents and touches her arm. 

“This is my niece,” she says. 

Charlie smiles and says, “I’m Charlene Johnson, ma’am.” 

Maybe it’s the uniform that makes her fall back on southern manners. Sharon does look sharp it in - official and in charge, even standing in her socks and her badge not yet on her chest. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Sharon says, and then turns to Brenda. “You should finish getting ready.”

“Yeah, what are we going to do about that?” Charlie wonders aloud and then must realize that it sounds rude because she makes a face and says, “I mean…”

“What?” Brenda says.

“I think we’ll have to wet it down again,” Sharon says. “We don’t have time for another shower.” 

Brenda reaches up, tries to smooth down her hair, but that, of course, doesn’t work. 

“Just embrace it! Natural is beautiful!” Claire says. 

“I can just put it up,” Brenda says. 

“Aunt Brenda,” Charlie says shaking her head. “I can’t let you go out like that. Come on.” She takes her hand pulls her toward the bathroom. Between the sinks at the vanity is a little pink stool and Charlie hooks her foot on the rung and drags it out. Presses her aunt gently into it. Brenda sinks, feeling suddenly weary.

“Can I get you something?” Claire offers. 

“A drink,” Brenda mutters. 

“Sure,” Claire says cheerily. Sharon meets Brenda’s eyes in the mirror and raises an eyebrow slightly. “Oh, but, you probably didn’t keep alcohol in the house. Not because… you know my brother…”

Brenda feels another pang of guilt. “Only wine.”

Charlie buries her hands in Brenda’s hair and says, “Uncle Clay.”

“Huh?” Claire says.

“He always carries a flask,” Charlie says. Claire nods, slips out the door that leads to the hallway. “It’s still damp underneath.”

“Good,” Sharon says. 

“What products do you have?” Charlie asks, glancing at the bare counter tops. 

Sharon clears her throat and Brenda knows full well it’s because everything helpful is still at the condo. 

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Sharon says, stepping up to stand next to Charlie. She reaches out a hand and it hovers over Brenda but doesn’t land anywhere. “We’ll pull the top half out of the way and blow out the bottom, straight as we can.”

“And then iron the top?” Charlie says.

“Exactly,” Sharon says. “I have both in my purse. I did my own hair at the office.” 

“Where are yours, Aunt Brenda?” Charlie asks. 

Claire comes back in with a mug of coffee and hands it to Brenda, saving her from answering. Brenda sips the coffee, doused liberally with bourbon, and Sharon leaves just for a moment to come in with a small bag. She pulls out the flat iron and plugs it in, switches it on, hands the blow dryer to Charlie.

“Think you can handle this?” Sharon says, gently, like someone’s mother.

“Yeah,” Charlie says. 

Brenda drinks her coffee - not at all sweet and it goes down like stale swill, so she tries to drink it as fast as possible. Charlie separates her hair and turns on the blow dryer. It’s soothing and warm and fills the room with enough noise that no one has to say anything. Sharon hands Charlie a big barrel brush and then steps back against the door. She and Claire stand and watch Charlie smooth the curls away. 

When Charlie turns off the blow dryer, the hushed sounds of the men down the hall talking fill the room. And then the sound of harps. 

“Oh,” Sharon says. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, steps out of the bathroom and into the bedroom but they can hear her quite clearly say, “Captain Raydor.”

The iron is hot, so Charlie lets down the rest of Brenda’s hair and sections it off. Starts from the crown of her head and smoothly pulls the flat iron down, root to tip. 

“I know, Mike, but I don’t think now is appropriate,” Sharon says. “Yes, I do too, I do, but not today, okay? Promise me, please. Okay. Yes, I’ll see everyone there. I’m going to help transport the family.” She must end the call because she steps back in, resumes her place against the doorframe. 

Brenda reaches out, picks up the black eyeliner pencil but her hand feels unsteady. 

“Sharon,” she says. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” Sharon says. “It’s okay, Brenda Leigh.” She comes over, leans against the counter facing Brenda, Charlie working on the other side. It reminds Brenda, suddenly, of her first wedding. The big dress, all her bridesmaids gathered around her, primping and preening. That day she’d had a flute of champagne and her whole life ahead of her. She’s certainly come full circle now, but at least she still feels cared for in the same way. Protected by all these women. 

Sharon touches under Brenda’s chin, tilts her head up. Uses her thumb to pull the skin of Brenda’s eyelid flat and swipes the pencil along the lashline in a steady, uniform stroke. 

When she does the other eye, Charlie says. “You’re good at that!”

“Thank you, Charlene,” Sharon says. Brenda opens her eyes and looks in the mirror and it does look even - better than when she does it herself. Sharon’s eyes are green and clear when she leans in to inspect her work. When she glances up and sees Brenda staring, she gives a reassuring smile. “I use to do Emmy’s,” she says to Brenda, though it’s loud enough for everyone to hear. “For the ballet.”

“Okay,” Charlie says. “It’s better.”

Her hair is straight but lacks body and isn’t exactly sleek. She’s got little flyaways everywhere. 

“You can do eyeshadow?” Sharon asks. Brenda nods. “Lipstick, powder but no mascara because you’ll just cry it down your face.” 

“Okay,” she says. It’s unsettling - Sharon seems so well-acquainted with loss. Brenda wonders how many funerals Sharon has cried her way through. At least one that she knows of, her friend who died of cancer, but she doesn’t know much else about Sharon’s extended family. Just her kids, Ricky who she has met and the elusive Emily, but nothing about siblings, hell, Brenda doesn’t even know if Sharon’s parents are still alive. Wasn’t her dad sick a few years ago? Did he pass? Sharon is digging in her little bag and finds a palette of eyeshadows in browns and nudes and an eye brush and hands it to Brenda. 

“What if I don’t cry?” Brenda asks, worried now. What if she gets in front of all those people and God and everyone and just freezes up? What if everyone looks at her and knows what a failure of a wife she’d become?

“You’ve been crying all morning,” Sharon says. 

“But what if…”

“It’s not a performance,” Sharon says. “Just feel how you feel.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Sometimes people go into like shock or something.” She still has her hands in Brenda’s hair but she’s not doing anything, just playing now. 

“I can take it from here,” Sharon says to Charlie who looks relieved and steps back next to Claire who is watching this with an expression bordering on fascination, like they are all part of some distant tribe. 

“Claire, have you thought about whether or not you’re going to say something?” Brenda asks. 

Claire looks up, brings a hand to her hip and all her dark bracelets slide around and jingle on her skinny wrist. Everything seems louder in the bathroom, every small movement bouncing around the tile. Claire’s bangles, the flat iron ticking with heat, Brenda’s own heartbeat in her ears. 

“When our parents died, Fritz always did the talking,” Claire says. 

“You don’t have to,” Brenda says. “But I think you could do a nice job.” 

“I’ll go meditate on it,” she says and disappears. Brenda can hear her climbing onto the bed, can hear her loud breathing from all the way in the bathroom.

Sharon’s hands in her hair are like heaven. Sharon is quick and efficient, manipulating Brenda’s hair into a clean looking bun just above her neck - but not so tight that she looks severe. Sharon tucks some pins in to hold things in place and then spends a few moments picking stray blonde hairs off the back of her dress and along her shoulders. 

“Finish your makeup,” Sharon orders. “It’s almost time to go.”

When they all emerge, Sharon with her badge at her chest, her tie straight, and her belt around her waist, the party outside has grown to include David Gabriel in a black suit. Brenda hugs him and Sharon shakes his hand and no one in her family says anything about how one more woman came out of the bedroom than went in. In fact, Sharon offers Clay her hand as well and he takes it and pulls her into a hug. 

“Thank you, Captain,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t think Brenda Leigh could get through this without you.”

Well now, that is certainly true. Sharon smiles at Clay, but Brenda can see that she’s uneasy. It’s too much for Brenda already and she wishes this day was over and done with. She wishes she could turn back the clock, crawl back in the bubble of Sharon’s little condo, when she’s sneaked back to Los Angeles in the middle of the night. When Fritz was alive. When the worst thing she’d ever done to him was ignore him. 

Charlie and Claire ride in the back of Sharon’s Crown Vic and the boys ride in Clay’s rental and David follows along, too, toward the large non-denominational church that Clay had arranged to hold the funeral. Brenda hadn’t had a preference except for they weren’t Catholic, weren’t anything, really. So she let her daddy decide and being a police officer dictates the graveyard - she’d let Will handle that part. She’d ordered some catering from a nearby restaurant though if she remembers correctly from her mama’s funeral, she’ll end up with more food than when she started. 

She’ll get money to pay for it all of course. Fritz’s life insurance still names her as the beneficiary and she’ll get his pension from the F.B.I. as well as a little compensation from the L.A.P.D. She may never have to worry about money again actually. But none of that is comforting. She’d give it all back to have Fritz alive. She’d take a nasty divorce over this in a heartbeat. 

She’d rather see his face disappointed than not at all. 

Charlie seems fidgety in the car and Brenda can see her out of the corner of her eye wiping her palms on the blue of her dress. 

Brenda twists to look at her and says, “You okay?”

“Nervous,” she says.

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to sing,” Charlie says. “Grandpa asked me to sing.”

Brenda turns around faces front again, surprised. She has no idea what’s in store for this service - her daddy had planned it all. She’d done the same thing for him when her mama had passed. Brenda guesses that’s just what happens when you lose your spouse. You just float along and wait for it all to calm down. 

“I’m sure you have a lovely voice,” Sharon offers when she realizes Brenda isn’t going to say anything.

Though when they arrive, Brenda can see that Charlie has every right to be nervous. The parking lot is full and there are traffic officers already waving people into an overflow lot across the street. Sharon ignores that, drives up to the doors of the church and rolls down her window. Andy is standing on the sidewalk and when he sees that it’s them, he waves them into a spot marked _Reserved_. There are three or four of them, meant for family and the pastor, probably. 

It’s a sea of dark uniforms and gray suits. Fritz had won the respect of a lot of his colleagues and they’ve all shown up now. But the bodies part for her when she steps onto the sidewalk. Sharon has put on her cover and looks every inch the official police woman. She sees that all of Major Crimes is in uniform and it feels strange to not be able to don one herself. This whole life, it just feels strange. 

Everyone freezes when they see her and it’s Kathy Tao who comes over to her first and hugs her, holds her hands, offers condolences. Lieutenant Tao can’t seem to look directly at her. 

Brenda’s already sweating in her black dress. It’s easily 85 degrees and even Sharon, impeccable in her uniform and makeup applied with a practiced hand, even she has color high on her cheeks. It’s cooler in the church, but not by much and when Brenda sees the flowers, the dark fabric hanging down from the pulpit and the long, dark casket, she freezes. 

She knows everyone is staring at her but she can’t make her feet go. She has spent her entire adult life in the company of dead people but she thinks that if she takes one more step toward that coffin, she’ll just fall apart.

But then, an arm slips into hers and she hears her daddy say, “Come on, sweet pea. We’ll go together.” 

Her family and Claire in the front row, Sharon and the guys in the row right behind. Across the aisle, Brenda sees Commander McGinnis and the rest of Fritz’s division. Something looks off about the Commander and it takes Brenda a moment to process why and finally she realizes that Ann is crying. 

Brenda herself doesn’t start crying until Charlie and Bobby get up and head to the piano. Her brother was the only one who hadn’t dreaded piano lessons. Brenda had been the first to be set free from them when she was fourteen after she’d argued her mama into a corner about it and her daddy hadn’t cared enough either way to force Brenda back to the keys. “Let us have an afternoon of peace, Willie Rae,” he’d said. Brenda hadn’t known at the time if he’d meant from the plunky music or from her own arguing and she still doesn’t. But even after Jimmy and Clay Jr. had both begged off lessons, Bobby had stuck with it and had, in Brenda’s opinion, come out the better for it. 

And Charlie’s voice is lovely and strong though she looks at her feet through the entire song - a simple and short rendition of “His Eye Is On The Sparrow.” 

Brenda doesn’t even realize she’s crying until someone reaches from behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder. 

Sharon.

Brenda covers her face with her hands.

oooo

“I just don’t think now is the right time,” Sharon says. Brenda overhears. She’d cried through the end of the service, cried through the graveyard, too. Not the heaving, wracking sobs that kept emitting embarrassingly from Commander McGinnis, but still, real tears that she couldn’t seem to stem. By the time they make it back to the house, Brenda feels dehydrated and swollen and her nose running is becoming a real problem. 

Only family and close friends come back to the house - Major Crimes and Brenda’s family, Sharon, and Brenda makes sure to speak to Commander McGinnis and S.O.B. division before they leave the graveside and invite them as well. She’d looked nervous and guilty of something as Brenda approached but Brenda feels nothing but sympathy and warmth for the woman.

After all, she’d fallen in love with Fritz once, too. 

Even Will comes back to the duplex and the small space is crammed, the street lined with government issue cars. The boys had arrived with the platters of cold cuts she’d sent them to pick up and jugs of sweet tea, though where they got sweet tea in Los Angeles is somewhat of a mystery. There are bowls of fruit salad, croissants to make sandwiches with. It all looks nice. Brenda can’t remember the last thing she ate. The toast Sharon had brought her this morning is still on the top of her dresser, cold and untouched.

Joel won’t come out from under the bed in the master bedroom and when Brenda finally arrives, after some of her guests, she heads straight for the bathroom and locks herself in to mop up her face. Sharon had been right about the mascara and Brenda had been stupid to worry about whether or not she’d cry. She’d been in her fair share of interrogation rooms. 

Murders usually cry. Cheaters, too. 

She looks at herself in the mirror, the dead look in her eye, the way her nose is red and tender. She feels unlovable, she feels empty inside. She feels like even if someone could love her, how would she ever be able to love them back?

But then she opens the door and sees Sharon in profile and that emptiness twists into something else, a sharp pang to be sure, but even Brenda can’t deny the affection she has for the older woman. Will she ever be able to look at Sharon and not want to drop everything just to stand next to her?

“She needs to know what I know.” This is from Lieutenant Tao.

“Brenda needs some time and I don’t see how knowing is going to change anything anyway,” Sharon says.

“Knowin’ what?” Brenda says. Sharon turns to look at her, surprised and then her expression evens out into nothing. Brenda steps forward and can see Mike now, too, and says, “What should I know?”

After all, information is her bread and butter and there’s nothing she likes so much as finding out the truth. 

“Chief-” Mike says.

“ _Lieutenant_!” Sharon says at the same time. “No.”

“It’s all right,” Brenda says. “It’s hard to imagine this day gettin’ much worse. Spit it out, Lieutenant.” 

Sharon crosses her arms and manages to look even more stern because she’s in uniform and has a gun strapped to her hip. 

“It’s about… it’s about Chief Howard,” Mike says. “About his heart.” 

She gets a flash of a memory, of Fritz on their honeymoon smiling at her across a small table in a piazza and saying, “You’re my heart, honey.” She shakes her head, wills it away. 

“What about it?” Brenda says.

“He had an episode, Chief. Last year. A heart attack and I helped him go to the hospital. He asked me not to tell you.” 

The doctor, of course, had mentioned something about this but Brenda had assumed that it had been before she met Fritz. Due his drinking or the fact he’d been thirty pounds heavier when she’d met him for the first time in D.C.

She hadn’t realized.

It’s almost a relief. Knowing he’d lied, too. She feels relieved. 

“I think he wanted to protect you,” Mike says because Brenda is just standing there, staring at him. 

“I’m sure you’re right, Lieutenant,” Sharon says. Her voice is icy cold. 

Brenda feels like crying again so she just turns around and goes back into her bedroom.

Guests be damned.

“Well I hope _you_ feel better,” she hears Sharon say to Mike sarcastically as Brenda closes the door. 

It doesn’t take long before Sharon comes in after her, doesn’t even knock. Brenda is sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed. She thought she’d cry, but she just feels too exhausted. 

“Fritz should’ve told you,” Sharon says, sitting next to her. Close, but not so close that they touch. 

“Why?” Brenda says. “I never told him anything.”

Sharon reaches out hesitantly and then puts her hand on Brenda’s bare knee where her skirt has ridden up. Brenda stares at it for a moment, watches Sharon’s thumb sweep back and forth. 

“I thought maybe I killed him,” Brenda says. “That me leaving killed him.”

“It is my understanding,” Sharon says carefully. “As Lieutenant Tao explained it to me, anyway, that Chief Howard was advised to retire and he chose, instead, to join the L.A.P.D. so if anything killed him, Brenda, it was the job. Not you.” 

Brenda nods but still. It’s such a hard pill to swallow. 

“Do you think if we’d gone back east or if he retired or if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t… do you think he might still-”

“Don’t,” Sharon says. 

“I think even if he’d had the most relaxing life ever, I might still have left,” Brenda whispers. She turns her head to look at Sharon and Sharon’s already facing her but her eyes are lower. Sharon’s watching her mouth and it almost knocks the wind out of her. “Because Sharon, you and I-”

But she doesn’t know what she can say, exactly, to express how she feels so instead she just leans in. Closes that awful gap. 

Sharon kisses her back, tilts her head slightly to make the angle better and their mouths align and it feels familiar and wonderful. Brenda squeezes her eyes shut, tries to drown out the sound of the party from behind the closed door, tries to imagine that they’re back at Sharon’s condo on the sofa, alone, that all she can hear is the sound of Sharon’s breath coming out of her nose, the little hitch she makes when Brenda opens her mouth as an invitation, the slick slide of their tongues touching, the sound of the doorknob turning…

“Oh shit, Jesus!” Charlie says and then closes the door again. They can hear her says, “Sorry!” on the other side of the door. 

Sharon pulls back, covers her mouth with her hand. 

“Whoops,” Brenda says. 

oooo

Claire goes to bed first, in the guest room, because her flight leaves in the morning. She’s working at a yoga studio, she says, and they can’t survive without her. But Brenda thinks maybe being surrounded by family, something she doesn’t have anymore, is making the whole process worse for her and Brenda doesn’t begrudge her going. 

So she turns in and Brenda is left with Charlie and her empty house. Everyone had pitched in to clean the food up, put it in tupperware and pack it into the fridge, take the trash out to the dumpster but there’s still dirty platters and old, stale coffee in the coffee pot and the house just doesn’t feel right. It feels trampled through. 

Charlie sits in the living room, staring tiredly at the television and Brenda stands at the sink, nervous and not cleaning anything. Finally she figures she’ll leave it for morning and maybe one of her brothers will do it. Or she’ll do it - she’s on bereavement leave from work and doesn’t have to go back for several weeks, at least, though she doesn’t think she’ll last that long. Rattling around by herself here. 

She comes into the living room and Charlie reaches for the remote and presses mute.

“Charlie,” she says. “Can we talk about earlier?”

“You don’t have to explain,” Charlie says. “It’s not really any of my business.” 

“Not really,” Brenda agrees sitting on the opposite end of the couch from her nonetheless. “But I still think we should.” 

Charlie looks around, at her lap, and then up at her aunt. “You aren’t even living here anymore, are you?”

“Not for a little while now,” Brenda says.

“Your closet was mostly empty and your makeup and stuff is gone,” Charlie says. Brenda nods. That’s true. “Did he make you leave?”

“No,” she says. “It was my choice.” 

“Where did you go?” Charlie asks. “To her house?”

“The thing about Sharon is,” Brenda says. “We didn’t even used to be friends. But she was going through a rough patch and I was going through a rough patch and we just…” Brenda shakes her head. She’s going to say that they made it work or that they’d figured it out but Charlie finishes the sentence for her.

“Fell in love?” she says. 

Brenda shrugs. “I’m not sure, honey.” 

“It seemed pretty friendly,” Charlie says. “I didn’t know you liked girls.”

“I like Sharon,” Brenda says. 

“What about Uncle Fritz?” she says. “Were you going to get divorced?”

Charlie is almost 21 now, grown and on her own for the most part and Brenda can’t bring herself to lie to Charlie anymore. So she goes against her nature and tells the truth, if only just this once. 

“We’d gotten the papers, but hadn’t filed them yet. So yes, we were going to but we didn’t. He’s still my husband. Was. Was still my husband,” she says. “Just because we couldn’t be married anymore doesn’t mean that I didn’t love him or that I’m not sad now. That I wouldn’t give anything to have him back, anything at all.” 

Charlie nods, sticks her thumb in her mouth and bites at the skin there. “Does Grandpa know?”

“No!” Brenda says. “Heaven help us, no.” 

And then Charlie surprises her a little and says, “Tell me about this lady then.” 

“She’s real smart,” Brenda says. “She does what I used to do. In Major Crimes.”

“Wow,” Charlie says. 

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “She’s got some kids and she cooks really well.” 

“She looks like someone’s mom,” Charlie says. 

“She is,” Brenda says. “She’s got a son and a daughter but they’re grown. Like you.” 

Charlie tucks her legs up under her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Brenda says. 

“What makes two people fall out of love?” 

“Are you having boy troubles?” Brenda asks. 

“No, nothing like that,” Charlie says. “I was just… I came home the other night, you know, because I was going to fly out here with daddy and I don’t know, mom and daddy were just fighting a lot, I think.” 

“People fight for all sorts of reasons,” Brenda says. “It doesn’t mean your parents don’t love each other.”

“I know,” Charlie says. “But why do people… I mean, no one gets married because they plan on fighting all the time.” 

“Remember the first time you came here?” Brenda says. “When you were sixteen?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Are you the same as you were then? Doing drugs and hating Atlanta?”

“I guess not,” Charlie says. 

“People change, even adults. You never stop growing in a way and sometimes people just grow differently. Grow apart.” 

Charlie nods, crosses her arms across her chest and says, “Hey, so Fritz’s sister is super weird.” 

Brenda laughs and nods. “A free spirit, he called her.” 

“She told me that she can read auras,” Charlie says. “She said mine was chartreuse. Which is like the grossest color of all time. It’s like snot green.”

“It’s awfully bright,” Brenda says. 

“And she tried to get me to do yoga with her before she went to bed and I was like, I don’t know, maybe? But then she told me that if I wanted to get closer to the earth I should always do yoga naked.”

Brenda bursts out laughing, throwing a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound so it doesn’t wake Claire up. Charlie giggles too. 

“But you know what’s funny?” Charlie says.

“What’s that?” Brenda asks.

“You were standing with your friend Sharon and Claire said she couldn’t tell your aura apart from hers. That they were the same color exactly,” Charlie says.

“What color did she say?” Brenda asks.

“I don’t know,” Charlie says. “Didn’t ask.”

oooo

Her daddy stays for a whole week after everyone else leaves. Her brothers are gone, Claire and Charlie, too. It feels like Atlanta all over again, Brenda in the kitchen and her daddy in front of the television every evening. Days are hard, too. Brenda is sleeping too much and putting off doing what she ought to be doing with this time - cleaning up and packing Fritz’s things.

On Monday she calls Will just because she can’t take another day in the house. She gets his secretary, Linda. They’re on friendly enough terms now, especially since Brenda no longer works for her boss and is not actively working against him. 

“Is he there? Can I talk to him?” Brenda asks. 

“Officially, no,” Linda says. “But I’ll put you through.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“Chief of Police William Pope.” 

Brenda pulls her phone down for a moment and looks at it in disbelief. 

“For heaven’s sake, Will,” she says. “People already know that.”

“Brenda,” he says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says.

“That was… a lovely service. How are you doing?”

“Fine, fine,” she says. “I’d just like to come in today and collect some of Fritz’s personal things from his office. Would that be okay?” 

“I can have someone pack it up for you,” Will says. 

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’d like to do it myself.”

“I’ll call security and tell them to expect you,” he says. 

“Thanks,” she says. “Thank you.” 

She convinces her daddy to stay home but not cheaply. She has to give him permission to start sorting through Fritz’s clothes which means she has to pull everything out of the closet and pile it on the bed so he doesn’t look in the closet and realize she’s hardly got anything in there. She’s been wearing the same set of sweats and three t-shirts since Fritz had died and she thinks the only reason no one has mentioned it is because her husband is dead.

“I’ll just be a few hours,” she says.

But she doesn’t go downtown. She drives straight to Sharon’s. She still has her key, after all. 

She feels like she has to sneak in even though it’s the middle of the day and Sharon will be at work. She turns the deadbolt and pushes the door open slowly, but it’s quiet inside and it smells like Sharon. She shuts the door behind her, leaves her bag by the door. 

She should just grab some things and go - throw some clothes into a paper sack and not linger but she feels like she’s come home after a long trip away and she can’t force herself to hurry out again. She opens the fridge, looks at the half empty bottle of pinot gris, the tupperware of leftovers, the half carton of eggs. Sharon had forgotten to rinse out the coffee pot - she must’ve been in a hurry, so Brenda does it now and leaves the clean pot in the dishrack. 

Sharon’s bed is made, the comforter pulled tight and smooth. Brenda’s glasses - the spare set, the ones with the little flowers - still sit on the other nightstand. Her things are still in Sharon’s bathroom, her clothes still down the hall. Brenda had half expected to come and find her things already packed, like she’d done when she’d served Fritz divorce papers. 

His whole division had seen Fritz get served and Major Crimes all knew that Brenda and Sharon were living together, so why did everyone treat her so respectfully at the funeral? Like she was a true weeping widow, like she hadn’t already jumped off that sinking ship of a marriage? Was Fritz the noble captain, drowning to be sure, but never abandoning her on principle? They had made vows, after all. 

Brenda makes promises she can’t keep all the time, though. 

She strips in the ensuite and drops her clothes to the floor. She turns on the shower and steps in, watches the room fill with steam. She feels more like herself with Sharon’s shampoo in her hair and Brenda’s razor still sits on the little ledge so she shaves her legs, under her arms. Washes her face and lets the conditioner set while the hot water pummels her breasts and shoulders. 

She uses Sharon’s towels because she’d forgotten to get clean ones of her own. 

It’s strange, having so many outfits to choose from. Rusty’s bed has been made, too, and Brenda can’t remember for sure but she thinks it’s a different set of sheets than from before Fritz died. These are a pale yellow - she remembers blue stripes. She leaves the towels on the bed while she pulls on underwear and fastens a bra behind her. Pulls on a tank top and a black linen skirt. 

She makes sure everything is neat when she leaves but doesn’t try to make it look like no one was here. Sharon will know and she’ll know it was Brenda. 

She still has to park three blocks away and walk to the building and she’s sweaty and hot when she finally arrives. The cool blast of air when she enters the building is a dizzying relief and the security guard she checks in with doesn’t give her any hassle. Just slides her a badge to wear and waves her on through the metal detector. She doesn’t carry a gun, anymore. 

In the elevator, she has to think for a moment. Her instinct is to jam her finger into the button that will take her to Major Crimes but Fritz was on a different floor. She presses the correct button and then balls her hands into fists down at her sides. Sharon probably isn’t even here. She’s probably out - they always had crime scenes on Mondays from the people who couldn’t make it through the weekend without dying. 

S.O.B. is strangely empty but it’s the tail end of the lunch hour and that she understands. There’s one officer, someone she recognizes from the funeral but she’s not sure she’s officially met. He stands when she comes in, like he’d been waiting for her.

“Chief Pope let us know you were coming,” he says, skipping over the introductions all together and Brenda is fine with that. He points to the empty office. 

“Thanks,” she says.

Someone has left an empty carton for her to fill. 

She can’t find the divorce papers at home and she feels like she’s got to find them now, to destroy them. They don’t matter anymore, not at all, and knowing they’re somewhere, like a beacon of failure, is keeping her up at night.

She starts with the desk drawers, thinking she’ll have to dig through files but when she opens the top drawer, the one she used to fill with candy, there’s a manilla envelope there and the divorce papers are inside. She pulls them out, looks at them. Her signature already on them and then, his too, though the F is a little more loopy than normal, like he’d hesitated.

“He didn’t want to file them.”

Brenda looks up, surprised, to see Commander McGinnis darkening the door. Brenda had been too wrapped up in her own thoughts and now she’s startled and embarrassed. 

“You knew?” Brenda asks..

Commander McGinnis nods. “He thought you still might reconsider.”

Brenda slips the papers back into the envelope and tosses it into the carton. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“I guess not,” the commander agrees. She still looks pale and drawn and sad. Maybe Brenda does, too. 

Brenda feels bold now that the papers are in her possession and she feels free, too. She owes nothing to this woman, nothing to the L.A.P.D., nothing to Will Pope. All the consequences she’d worried over when she’d been a Deputy Chief have all either already come true or have become moot. So bravely she says, “I’m sorry you never got your chance, Ann.”

Like they’re friends, or something. But, no. Brenda doesn’t have female friends. Even Sharon, who she thinks about constantly, who she longs for like she’s carrying around a caged bird in her chest whose wings beat restlessly against the bars. Even Sharon is not her friend. They’d tried that, hadn’t they?

Ann, to her benefit, doesn’t confess. Just leaves Brenda to her work. She tosses in random things that don’t really mean anything to her. A spare shaving kit, a red tie she doesn’t remember seeing before. His coffee mug from Venice Beach. The glass nameplate that sits on his desk. A framed picture of her and Joel. 

The carton isn’t even that heavy. He hadn’t been here very long, maybe. Or didn’t care for personal things at work. She realizes she didn’t really know what kind of office he kept. She’d only ever been to his F.B.I. one a handful of times and if she ever needed anything, he came to her. She’d lived her life and he’d worked around that until he couldn’t even find a place for himself anymore. And she couldn’t find it, either. 

She doesn’t bid anyone farewell, just takes the carton to the elevators. When she gets home, she’ll shred the papers and turn her attention and determination to getting her father on a plane back to Atlanta. 

When the elevator opens, Provenza is inside and he’s alone.

“Chief!” he says, though he glances at the visitor badge pinned to her shirt. 

“Hello, Lieutenant,” she says, forcing a smile. It makes her face hurt. Oh, she likes Provenza well enough but she’d thought she could get in and out without running into anyone from Major Crimes. Seeing them, seeing Sharon, will make her want to never leave.

“I was just headed down,” she says. “I can catch the next one.”

“Nonsense,” he says, waving her in. “I’m going down, too.” 

She steps on, sees the button for Major Crimes’ floor lit up.

“How are you?” she asks. 

The doors slide closed.

“Fine, fine,” he says. “How are you?”

“Holdin’ up, thanks,” she says. She can see him peer into the box, can see it register on his face. His smile slips into a frown and that’s comforting in a way. That’s the Provenza she knows. 

“Your family still in town?” he asks.

“Just my daddy but I’m workin’ on that,” she says. “I’d like to get back to work, soon. Get things back to normal. Well, as much as they can be.” 

“That’ll be good,” he says. The elevator slows and then they jerk as it stops and the doors part. “Come say hi, Chief.” Provenza stands in door, blocking them from closing and looking at her with the most earnest expression she’s ever seen on such a hardened face. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says.

“It’ll be good for her,” Provenza says, lowering her voice. 

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you two but I do know that when she sees you she’s happier and when she doesn’t, she’s the wicked witch again so cut an old guy some slack and come say hello.” He sighs. “Chief, _please_.”

“That bad?” Brenda asks. He nods. “All right then, just a few minutes.” 

She follows him, feeling awkward and out of place with the box. She waits for him to wave his keycard in front of the access door and then he holds it open, makes her walk in first. Julio sees her first and then says, “Oh thank God.” 

“Hi y’all,” she says. 

“Chief!” says Andy. He has every right, she thinks, to never talk to her again, but he smiles now. “Nice to see you.” 

Even Mike, who still looks like he’s about to fall over with guilt gives her a wave and Amy who’d attended the funeral - the only person on Major Crimes that knew Fritz better than she knew Brenda - smiles and says, “Nice to see you, Chief Investigator.” 

Brenda sets down her box on Provenza’s desk and he doesn’t say anything, accepts the punishment gracefully. Brenda looks through the work room to her office - Sharon’s office, she corrects ruefully - and sees that the blinds are closed.

“You think I should interrupt?” 

“Yes!” 

She can’t tell who, exactly, says it. Maybe they all do. Brenda’s been on the wrong end of Sharon’s bad moods before, but not for some time. She crosses the murder room and approaches the door, trying to ignore the fact that they’re all watching her, the fact that there are some mug shots up on the murder board, but information looks scarce. 

She knocks.

“ _What_?” 

It’s not exactly a friendly invitation but she opens the door, sticks her head in. 

“Oh,” Sharon says. “Oh, Brenda.”

Brenda closes the door behind her as Sharon gets up from her desk, rushes around it, opens her arms. It’s an aggressive hug and Brenda has to plant her feet firmly so Sharon doesn’t topple her over. She puts her arms around Sharon hard, tucks her face into her neck. And it goes on for a long time, a long stretch of silence where they just stand there, pressed together as hard as they can be. Brenda finds herself taking deep breaths, dizzy with the smell of her, the warmth of her under her hands. The way even her breathing is comforting. Brenda had gotten so used to it. 

Finally, Brenda feels Sharon’s grip loosen and she steps back a little. Brenda can see a wet sheen in her eyes, like she’d teared up a little. 

“Hi,” Brenda says.

“Hi,” Sharon says and then dips her head and kisses her, just a quick burst of pressure and then she pulls back again. 

“Rough day?” Brenda asks. “Provenza practically brought me in here at gunpoint.”

“He called you?” she asks. 

“No, I was here getting Fritz’s personal effects out of his office,” Brenda admits. 

“Oh,” Sharon says. “Are you okay?”

“I am now,” Brenda says. “Sharon, I-”

“Come home,” Sharon blurts. “Please come home.” 

Brenda gapes at her, surprised and pleased. “Really?”

“If you want to,” Sharon says. “It’s not right, anymore, without you, it doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel right.”

Brenda reaches out and grabs Sharon’s face, rises up on the balls of her feet and kisses her. It feels reckless with only blinds and glass walls between them and the rest of Sharon’s division but she needs Sharon to know how much saying that means to Brenda. Sharon tastes a little bit like coffee, like Clinique lipstick, like summer - sunscreen and salt and sunshine. She feels Sharon’s tongue against her teeth and Brenda hears a whimper when she opens her mouth and she honestly doesn’t know which one of them made it. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way her nipples tighten, the flush of arousal she feels between her legs. 

Brenda pushes and Sharon stumbles backwards, grabbing onto Brenda’s arms so they don’t have to sever their connection. They don’t stop moving until Sharon runs into her desk and then it’s better because she’s in heels and when she sits on the edge of the desk, their heights even out and Brenda is, standing, even a little bit taller. She uses the leverage gladly, taking her hands off of Sharon’s face and burying them in her hair, bearing down and taking control by thrusting her tongue deeper while she grinds her hips forward. 

This time the whimper definitely came from Sharon and the sound makes Brenda slide her hands down out of her hair and drag down across Sharon’s chest. Sharon’s got on a dress and a jacket but Brenda keeps going, undoes the button holding her jacket closed and slips her hands in so she can grasp at Sharon’s small waist. 

Sharon’s hands have settled very nicely on Brena’s behind and anytime Brenda does something she particularly likes - bites at her lip or slips a leg between Sharon’s widening knees - Sharon gives her a squeeze. 

It’s not until Brenda’s sliding a hand to Sharon’s knee and then up, up under the fabric of her dress that Sharon seems to snap out of it and wrenches her lips away, breathing hard and heavy. Brenda halts her hand mid-thigh and gulps in air, too. But she doesn’t want to lose the closeness she’s only just reclaimed and so she touches her forehead to Sharon’s and they stand there, gasping and trembling with pounding hearts.

“Uh…” Sharon says, but doesn’t manage to get out anything else.

“I have a cat,” Brenda says. 

“Huh?”

“If I come back, I have to bring the cat,” she explains. “Can I bring Joel?”

“Sure,” Sharon says after a long, foggy pause. “You can bring the cat.” 

“I have to get rid of my daddy,” she says. “Give me a couple days.”

Sharon makes an impatient noise and it’s adorable and it makes Brenda lean in to kiss her again but Sharon pulls back. 

“Not here, I can’t do this here,” Sharon says. 

“Right,” Brenda says. “You’re right.” Brenda steps back so that they aren’t touching and Sharon smooths her skirt back down into place. It’s no use though, her hair has been mussed and she’s flushed bright pink. Brenda reaches forward with her thumb and Sharon allows her to wipe away smudged lipstick. “Better. How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” Sharon says and then realizes that isn’t what Brenda meant and gives her a lopsided smile. “You look fine.” 

“Hey,” Brenda says. “Can I take you out to dinner?”

“Uh-”

“Not tonight but, after my daddy goes. I could take you out. Like a date.”

“You want to take me on a date?” Sharon asks. 

“I think that could be nice,” Brenda says. “I know we’re doin’ things a little backwards but…”

“Sure,” Sharon says. “Yes. Of course. Wine and dine me. I’d love to.” She smiles. 

“I gotta go,” Brenda says. “But I’m glad I stopped to see you.” 

“I am too,” Sharon says.

“Be nice to the guys,” Brenda says, her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

Sharon nods. “Okay.”

Provenza looks up hopefully when Brenda comes out and she nods at him, gives him a little thumbs up.

“Thanks, Chief,” he says, handing her the carton she’d left. 

It’s not until she’s in the elevator that she notices the Hershey’s bar sitting on top of Fritz’s things.

oooo

The traffic moves at a crawl, slinking forward like a line of frightened animals. Time seems slow, too, because her daddy is mad, fumin’ really. He’d offered to move in with her, relocate to L.A. full time and she’d, as politely as she could, declined. 

“Daddy, your whole life is in Atlanta!” she’d said. “I can’t ask you just to leave that all behind.” 

“My whole life was your mother,” he’d said. “And now who do we have, Brenda Leigh? Each other!”

“What about Bobby and Joyce?” she’d countered. “And Clay Jr. And what about Charlene in Athens. You’d be so far from them.” 

He’d frowned at her. “You don’t want me to move out here?”

“I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret because you think I can’t take care of myself,” she’d said. “I got a life here. I can get by.” 

Brenda suspects he’s at least partially relieved. He’s giving her the silent treatment because he’s sad to go but she holds firm. When they finally exit onto Sepulveda he relents, time growing short, and says, “I’d like for you to come home for Christmas.”

“I can arrange that,” she says. Anyway, Christmas is six months away. That’s plenty of time to go or figure out a way not to. 

“I just love you so much, darlin’, that’s all.”

“I know daddy,” she says. “I love you, too.” 

When he’s off and out of her hands, she pulls off the road into the cell phone lot, where cars sit waiting for their loved one’s flight to land, and parks. She can’t make it another 40 minutes in traffic to home. She has to call now, to talk to Sharon now. She can’t stop thinking about the office, about how Sharon had been so hot to the touch. At night, she can’t stop imagining in bed, alone, that she’s back at the condo, that if she just reaches out far enough, she’ll encounter warm skin, willing and wet. 

Her hands tremble as she dials.

But Sharon doesn’t answer. Brenda ends the call before the voicemail finishes and she has to leave a message. She doesn’t want a recording of Sharon, she wants her voice. Wants her in the flesh. 

She drives home, the traffic still slow and the heat coming off the freeway pavement in bleary waves. She has the air conditioning on, blowing cold air at her but it’s the kind of heat that sticks around. All the other drivers look as miserable as she does - a man clearly looking down at a cell phone in his lap, a woman with her head leaned all the way back against her headrest, her hand draped over the top of the wheel.

Brenda gets home and then, making a decision, feeds Joel and cleans out his box.

“You’ll be okay for a night, right?” she asks him. He cocks his head and blinks lazily at her before leaping off of the back of the sofa and padding silently down the hall. “I’ll come back and get you soon.”

There’s not much to pack so she doesn’t take anything that won’t fit in her black tote. All she really needs is her glasses, her phone, her keys. She’s not sure why she’s nervous. Sharon had practically begged her to come back, after all. Her nerves lie in something other than not being wanted, she thinks. Before they had just sort of stumbled into being intimate but she feels like she’s driving now with a purpose. 

This isn’t a thing that is happening to them, it’s a thing they’re going to engage in wilfully. 

And oh, she wants it. She wants that feeling back, the one where she’s right on the verge of falling. The one she gets when she sees on Sharon’s face that she’s just as hungry and desperate as Brenda is. That feeling when they can’t keep their hands of one another even though they have really, really tried. It had made her sick, at first. When they’d been sharing the bed at night but before they’d started stealing touches and kisses. She’d spent every night worrying that she was the only one that felt that way and it had made her physically ill - sick to her stomach, nibbling at dry toast and then retching it up later. 

Because it’s one thing to fall in love with someone who isn’t going to love you back but another thing completely to fall for a woman when you’ve only ever been with men. She’d felt like she was going insane, like everything that had made her special and unique was fading from inside of her. It had been terrifying and humbling and when Sharon had finally kissed her it was like that first break in winter when the river thaws and the ice cracks and the water starts rushing again. She felt the life rushing back into after a long and tortuous freeze. 

Sharon isn’t home when Brenda arrives, parking the Prius on the street and walking half a block over and one block up. But everything is the same - the dusty ficus in the lobby, the smell of the elevator - a mix of sweaty bodies and the chemical they use to clean the carpets. The 11th floor is empty when the doors part to let her exit and her key slips just as easily into the door as it always has. The lock clicks, she enters. 

As she walks in her phone buzzes and it’s Sharon calling her, finally. 

“Hello?” she says.

“Hi,” Sharon says. “I saw you called. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Brenda says. “I just dropped my daddy off at the airport.” 

There’s a bit of a pause and Brenda can hear noise in the background, the muffled sound of deep voices and the whiz of cars passing. She’s out somewhere, outside. 

“Oh,” Sharon says, her voice noticeably lower than before. Brenda smirks. “Where are you?”

“Your bed,” Brenda says. A little white lie. It’s close enough to a truth, she thinks, it’s where she’s headed anyway. 

Sharon’s sharp intake of breath clears Brenda of any guilt about the fib. “I’ll be home in an hour,” Sharon says. Brenda laughs into the phone and glances at the clock on the microwave. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

“I don’t care,” Sharon says and hangs up. 

Sharon’s bed is just as amazing as Brenda remembers. The first night back home, she’d woken up with a backache and had blamed the mattress scornfully. She’ll have to get rid of it - sell it to some college kids on craigslist or find some charity that will come pick it up for free. She certainly doesn’t want to keep it - it seems morbid, almost. She’ll keep some things but she’s determined not to be one of those women who keeps a closet full of men’s clothes when the man who wore them is long gone. 

It seems callous, she knows. But she’d given ten years to Fritz and while there had been good times, the fit had never been quite right. She felt like she constantly had to convince him to love her, despite her flaws. Fritz looked at her and saw all the things she was missing like a puzzle he could never complete. She wasn’t tidy, she wasn’t punctual, she wasn’t kind. 

But with Sharon, Brenda feels completely herself, whole and filled to the brim. Always about to spill over. Sharon doesn’t want to take anything from Brenda, she doesn’t want to catalogue her missing parts, to drag her finger along Brenda’s fractures just to hear her hiss. She wants only to co-exist and so yes, she misses Fritz and yes, she would never choose for things to end like this but she did, she knows, choose for things to end. And it’s not hard to mourn his passing but it is difficult, she is finding, to mourn the end. 

She makes it 45 minutes before she falls asleep. She wants to greet Sharon, want to be a pretty picture for her but life has been grueling since the death and now that she feels like she’s finally home, again, she falls asleep looking at emails on her phone, most from distant relatives who’d never met Fritz sending on their condolences. 

When she wakes, it’s because the mattress dips beside her. It takes some effort to pull herself out of the fog of sleep and when a hand strokes across her forehead and pushes her hair behind her ear, she hums a little and presses into it. 

“Hi,” says Sharon. “Sorry I’m late.”

Brenda looks at the clock and it’s been closer to two hours. 

“That’s okay,” she says. “What happened?”

“Well, it was either leave and have to go back or stay a little longer and get to spend the rest of the day with you,” Sharon says. “I thought you’d understand.”

“Of anyone in the world,” Brenda chuckles. “I understand your job has to come first.”

Sharon smiles, pushes her hair back again. Brenda had wanted to look beautiful for Sharon, and sexy, when she found her in the bed but even half asleep and still in her clothes, Sharon is looking at her like she’s a gift she’d like to unwrap. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says. “I think about you all the time, I can’t stop it.” She shakes her head, presses her lips together, pained.

It twists at her heart. She still looks like Captain Raydor in her slate gray dress and matching blazer, her hair curled at the ends, full makeup. Brenda can see her both ways now, the Captain who stalked into her crime scene barking orders and sneering down her nose at Brenda and the woman who’d let Brenda into her home, who’d taken her to the beach and held her in the shower and driven her to the hospital on the night that her husband had died. 

Brenda sits up and reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulls it over her head. Lies back down and then arches until her hips are off the bed and pushes down her pants, kicking her legs until they come off completely. 

Sharon watches this, one hand to her chest, her mouth open a little. Brenda gives her a slow smile. 

Sharon slips off her jacket and Brenda knows how serious this is because she just lets it fall right to the floor. Her shoes follow - thunk, thunk - and then Sharon is scooting toward her. Brenda makes herself lie still, lets Sharon take control. Sharon reaches out, touches her shoulder and slides it down her arm, across her belly, over one hip. Brenda feels goosebumps on her skin and Sharon leans over her, lowers down to brush their lips together. But she doesn’t linger, instead kissing along her jaw. Brenda feels a hand on her breast at the same time Sharon catches an earlobe between her teeth and Brenda whimpers, pressing her thighs together. 

She feels fingers tug down the cup of her bra and her nipple tightens in the cool air. Sharon’s mouth moves from her ear and Brenda tilts her head to give her better access. Sharon trails hot kisses along her neck and then moves down, dragging her tongue over the soft swell of her breast to latch on to her nipple, worrying it with her teeth and then soothing it with her tongue. 

Brenda can’t stay still any longer and she buries her hands in Sharon’s hair, holding her in place. She pushes her hips into the mattress and reaches out, smoothing her hand down Sharon’s back and then up again until she finds the zipper. But Sharon shrugs her off, lets the nipple go with one last swipe of her tongue and then kisses the bumps of her ribs, kisses just above her belly button, kisses the bone that juts out from her hip.

Brenda is panting now, feeling a little drunk on anticipation. Sharon hooks her fingers into Brenda’s panties and gives a little tug. Brenda shifts so Sharon can pull them down over her hips and watches Sharon maneuver them over her knees, off her feet and toss them over her shoulder. Then she slides her hands up her legs and pushes her thighs apart, opening Brenda up wide. 

“Oh God,” Brenda says. “You don’t… you don’t hafta-”

“Shh,” Sharon says. And then she pushes her glasses up to the top of her head and leans in, blowing lightly across Brenda’s swollen sex. Sharon’s grip on her is tight and holds her in place which is good because when Sharon’s tongue darts out and laps at her, she arches violently up with a groan. 

“Chief,” Sharon says. “Already so wet.”

Brenda squirms at the title but Sharon doesn’t let her protest, just lowers her mouth again and presses her tongue flat against Brenda’s clit. And suddenly Brenda can feel every inch of her body and every nerve is connected to where Sharon’s tongue is on her. She can feel the cool air on her wet nipple, she can feel sweat beading along her back, she can feel the light scratch of the sheets against her butt as she rocks her hips.

Brenda has given a lot of blow jobs in her life. It’s just a fact - she’d started doing it because she thought it was something she had to do and then kept doing it because it helped her get what she wanted. Power, leverage to be used later on. But she’s never been completely interested in receiving oral simply because there are other, better parts of sex and she’s an impatient woman. It usually takes her too long to get off like this and it usually consists of men pistoning their tongue into her like penetration is the end all be all of sex. And if they do manage to find her clit, it is either too much or not enough, too timid or too aggressive. Brenda likes to be on top, likes to ride a man and touch herself. It’s the best way to guarantee an orgasm for both parties without anyone getting their feelings hurt. 

But as she stares down the topography of her own body to watch Sharon’s head between her thighs, she realizes that it’s not that she doesn’t like oral sex, it’s that she just doesn’t like bad oral sex. Sharon is soft and warm and attentive. When she sucks Brenda’s clit between her teeth and Brenda gasps and bucks, the hot pleasure racing up her spine, Sharon does it again because she’s taking the time to learn what Brenda likes. It’s not a race to the finish line, but a long stroll down a curving path. 

“Fuck,” Brenda gasps when it feels like Sharon sucks her whole sex into her mouth. And she can feel, she can _feel_ Sharon smile against her and she’ll be damned if that isn’t the sexiest thing that she has ever encountered.

Sharon hums, pleased, and the vibration of it makes Brenda cover her own face with her hands and mewl into her palms. It’s embarrassing how close she is, how she feels like a stiff breeze could send her over the edge, how she’s trying so hard to be quiet, not because she doesn’t want Sharon to hear how she’s feeling but because she wants to hear the wet sounds of their bodies at the connection. 

Sharon’s mouth leaves her and Brenda’s hands fly away so she can look down in protest, but Sharon slides in one finger and is watching her own hand pleasure Brenda so intently, her chin shining. Brenda flops back, her hips thrusting against the finger desperately. Sharon adds another and curves them up and Brenda gasps, sounds of her pleasure lodging in her throat. And then Sharon does something that no one has ever done to her before. She thrusts her fingers in and then moves them in different directions and Brenda hears herself squeak “Oh, fuck!” and Sharon smiles and nods once to herself, pleased. Brenda grabs her own breasts, wrenching the other cup of her bra out of the way and twists her own nipples. Sharon dips her head back down and resumes licking while her fingers thrust in and out and in and out again, occasionally pausing to do that, that _thing_ again that stretches Brenda out and makes her feel like she’s going to burst into flame. 

Brenda knows the orgasm is imminent but it still feels like it hits suddenly and then drags out for long, dizzying moments. She clenches Sharon’s fingers inside of her, holding them there and Sharon licks her through it all, slowing only when Brenda’s body, which had been hovering in a perfect arc, hits the mattress again. Sharon licks gently, licks away the wetness pooling in Brenda, licks the crease where her pelvis becomes her thigh, drags her tongue along her thigh around to her hip and then kisses up her stomach, stops to nibble at her breasts and then heads up her neck and chin and jaw until she’s hovering over Brenda, looking down at her with no small amount of reverence. 

“Lovely,” Sharon says. Brenda does not yet feel capable of forming sentences so she lifts her head enough to kiss Sharon, to taste herself as Sharon had tasted her. Sharon kisses her back with enthusiasm. When they part she says, “I’m glad you’re home, Brenda.”

Apparently.

This time Sharon lets Brenda work the zipper down her back and helps her by standing and pulling her arms out of the dress, pushing it past her hips to pool on the floor. Sharon’s bra is pale green and lacey and Brenda barely has time to enjoy it before Sharon reaches around to undo the clasp and then that, too, falls down past the edge of the mattress to where Brenda can’t see it anymore. The panties go next, simple white cotton but Brenda can see where Sharon has to ease them away from her center because she’s soaked them through already. 

It’s so novel to see her in the light. Her whole body is covered in small, delicate freckles and Brenda wants to touch every single one.

Whatever calm, single-minded drive that Sharon had harbored while she was focused on Brenda’s pleasure seems to have evaporated because when she crawls back into the bed she seems jerky and impatient and like she’s made up of nothing but buzzing energy and light. Like if Brenda were to break her open, the only thing that would spill out would be heat and brightness. Brenda tries to hold her all at once, wrapping her up with her arms and her legs, their breasts pressed together and their stomachs sliding, their thighs bumping. The first time they had made love had been frantic and new and they’d both been so unsure about the mechanics of it all, always stopping to reassure one another that something felt good. This time is different. This time Brenda feels feral and wants to leave marks on Sharon’s skin, wants to devour every part of her. Wants to show the world that she’s been here, that she’s here now, that she isn’t going to leave. 

She drags her nails down Sharon’s back - lightly at first and then hard, angry red marks in her wake and Sharon moans, parting her legs so that Brenda feels heat and wetness against her thigh. Sharon’s hips roll seeking friction and Brenda knows she can do better and reaches a hand between them. 

Sharon makes a little moan of surprise as Brenda slips inside of her. Being inside Sharon is like being made right. Brenda moves her fingers, sets up a fast rhythm and watches Sharon’s face closely - the way she tilts her head, the way her lips purse, the way she comes apart with a loud cry, throwing herself against Brenda as tightly as she can saying, “Yes, yes, please, yes, please” until it all blends into one long word that Brenda silences with her mouth and tongue. Sharon has blushed pink at her knees and shoulders, at the tips of her breasts and at her elbows and the apples of her beautiful cheeks. She’s like a woman in a painting, she’s more than beautiful, she’s art. 

Brenda could just cry but she blinks it away because she doesn’t think she could explain it. That it’s not about sadness or death or grief, that it’s about awe. She’s crying because she’s never felt like this, she’s crying because she didn’t know there was a this to feel. That sex before had been some sort of one act play that she’d had to memorize lines to stumble through but sex with Sharon is literature.

Sharon shudders for awhile and then twitches and then manages to tuck her face into Brenda’s neck and they hold each other skin to skin. Brenda drops little kisses onto Sharon’s sweaty forehead. 

“Don’t leave again,” Sharon mumbles into Brenda’s skin. 

Brenda rubs a hand down Sharon’s back and says, ”To be fair, I had a good excuse.”

Sharon chuckles and says, “No more excuses, Chief. Just stay.”

“I’ll try,” Brenda says. She doesn’t like making promises that she doesn’t know she can keep but she can’t ever imagine a scenario, anymore, where she’d willingly leave this woman behind. Brenda moves her hand down again now that Sharon has stopped shaking and reaches between her thighs once more, intent on going slow and making her come apart again and again and for as long as she’ll let her.

Why would anyone ever leave this place?

Sharon hums happily, throws apart those rosy knees once more. 

oooo

Brenda gets rid of a lot when her lease runs out in the end of August but one of the things she keeps are the wedding rings. Hers, and Fritz’s too, in a little velvet satchel that she keeps in the little inside pocket of her black tote, always zipped so they don’t float around like everything else. The furniture goes, most of the kitchen things get boxed up and put into storage or given to Goodwill. That life comes apart - perhaps less messy in death than divorce but Brenda still cries and drinks her way through packing up, crying against Sharon, against David, against Mike who cries, too. The men carry boxes for her, load Fritz’s SUV and her car and Sharon’s car and all the cars until the little duplex is empty and the keys to the door in the mailbox for the landlord. 

If anyone has any thoughts about moving Brenda in with Sharon, they keep it to themselves. David helps because he’s still Brenda’s right hand man and Mike out of a misplaced sense of guilt, but they don’t call anyone else. Provenza doesn’t do helping and Sharon still feels guilty about Andy, tries to protect him from the situation by excluding him completely. 

The end of August, is, incidentally, when Rusty comes home. 

Brenda is supposed to return to work full time on the first of September. She’s been going in part time, a couple days a week to manage larger things and everyone’s been very understanding but she’s ready to focus on her career again, to worry about other people more than herself. Too much time alone is never good for her and she doesn’t want to be the kind of person that just sits around waiting for Sharon to get back like a dog in the window. 

Sharon is at work and Brenda is unpacking a box of knick knacks when her phone rings. Joel watches her, already at home on the back of Sharon’s sofa, his tail flicking back and forth.

She’d reassigned Emma Rios to blue collar crime long ago so it’s unusual to receive a phone call from her now. 

“Chief Investigator Johnson,” she answers tersely. 

“Chief Investigator, this is D.D.A Rios,” she says. 

Brenda sighs. “I’m back Monday, Miss Rios, full time. I imagine whatever this is can wait until business hours?”

“No, ma’am,” Emma says. “It’s about Phillip Stroh.” 

“What is the status of Rusty Beck?” Brenda demands because first things first. She’s going to go downtown, she’s going to help in anyway she can with the full force of her office behind her but she needs to know what state Sharon is going to be in when she gets there. 

“Alive, minor injuries,” Emma says. “We’re bringing him home as fast as we can.”

“And Phillip Stroh?” Brenda says, relieved. Emma must hear it in her voice. 

“Dead,” Emma says and Brenda can hear something in her voice, too. Victory and vengeance. “I’m supposed to notify you, ma’am, and then report to the office of the Chief of Police to meet Rusty’s legal guardian, Captain Raydor. I believe you’re acquainted with her?”

“I believe I am,” Brenda says. 

Rusty is already in the air by the time Brenda makes it downtown. She doesn’t just grab her purse and run. She gives herself a moment to think about what it is that Sharon will need for the next few days. She won’t want to come home, she won’t want to leave his side. She brings them both a change of clothes to leave in the trunk of the car. She brings Sharon’s black flats because she saw the heels the woman had left in this morning and those shoes are not meant for all nighters. The flats she puts in her black bag. She dresses for work, shucking off her shorts and tank top for a teal dress and sandals. She wants to look like a member of the law enforcement community, not someone obsessed with a dead murderer and certainly not a hovering, worried loved one. 

Sharon had already put her onto Major Crimes’ permanent visitor’s list so she doesn’t have any trouble getting through security. She’s impatient for the elevator to arrive, impatient for everyone to disembark before she slips on, jamming her finger so hard into the floor button that it bends her nail back a little. She presses the door close button with her middle finger and then puts the painful nail into her mouth to suck the hurt away. 

Emma is already waiting outside the closed door to Will’s outer office and it’s hard not to glower at her as Brenda approaches. 

“Where is Sharon?” she demands. Frowns at herself. “Captain Raydor.” 

“In there,” Emma says. “We’re supposed to wait to be called in.”

“To hell with that,” Brenda says and pushes open the outer door to where Will’s secretary takes one look at her and seems to just give up. She doesn’t even say anything when Brenda opens the door to Will’s office. Just sits back in her office chair and shrugs at Emma, waving her in too.

She interrupts Will mid-sentence but he seems used to this, still, and only stutters for a moment before completing his thought. “-and the F.B.I. field office there will handle that.”

It’s difficult not to just shove her way past the F.B.I. liaison who isn’t Fritz, Provenza who looks tired and pissed off, Will, to not just bowl those men over in an effort to hold Sharon, to look her right in the eye and tell her that it’s all okay. But she doesn’t, she just stops, looks around and waits for Will to bring her up to speed.

“Chief Investigator Brenda Johnson from the D.A.’s office and Deputy District Attorney Emma Rios, who worked the Stroh case,” Will says. “This is Special Agent Jonathan Sasaki, the F.B.I. liaison to the L.A.P.D. and you know Captain Raydor, obviously,” Will glances at her and actually rolls his eyes when he says this, the bastard, “and Lieutenant Provenza.”

“Of course,” she says. 

“Captain Raydor is here not to represent Major Crimes but as Rusty’s legal guardian,” Will reiterates and obviously not for the first time because Sharon presses her lips together into a hard line. 

“Does anyone in this room not understand what a conflict of interest is?” Brenda asks. Provenza smirks and Special Agent Sasaki’s eyebrows rise a little. Will frowns at her. ‘Good. Why don’t we catch me up. First of all, how on earth did Phillip Stroh find Rusty?”

Eventually, they move to the conference table. Brenda doesn’t let herself look at Sharon, doesn’t move her focus away from the subject at hand. In fact, she’s going to sit between Emma and Will if she can help it, but it’s Sharon who claims the seat next to her, her face hard but her eyes wide. 

Special Agent Sasaki explains how they are unsure at this time how Stroh located Rusty at the University of Nebraska in Omaha - Sharon shakes her head, sadly - but Stroh had murdered one of the custodians that worked maintenance on the dormitories, had waited and watched long enough that he’d become familiar with Rusty’s routine, his class schedule, his security detail. 

“But obviously there was a leak somewhere along the way,” Provenza says.

“Perhaps,” says Special Agent Sasaki. “But we live in a world of social media, now, Lieutenant. Technology in the pocket of probably every student on campus. Everyone’s phone synced up to a satellite, every kid on Facebook or Instagram or Snapchat. The days of disappearing are over, frankly, and a system like Witness Protection doomed to fail.”

“That’s not good enough for me,” Sharon says, the first thing she’s said since Brenda has become a part of this meeting. 

“The good news is,” Sasaki barrels on, “Even though Stroh found Mr. Beck, the protection part still worked as planned.”

“Bullshit,” Sharon seethes. “Stroh had him alone for nearly twenty minutes! He has a black eye and a gash in his leg that needed thirty stitches!”

Her voice breaks on the end and Brenda does too, reaches out and takes her hand. Sharon grabs at the contact, squeezes Brenda’s fingers to the point of pain. Will sees it, stares at their entwined hands like it’s a trainwreck that he can’t look away from. Brenda certainly doesn’t care what Will Pope thinks about her, even less so now that he isn’t her boss, but she can concede that she’s a long ways from the woman who’d fallen into his bed the first time all those years ago. Back then she’d been so lonely and adrift. She’d fallen for him partly because he’d just paid attention to her. 

Look at them now. Will overweight, alone, and working himself to the bone and Brenda making more money than she ever would’ve as a police officer and holding the hand of her… girlfriend? 

Well, that was a conversation for another time. 

“Rusty received medical treatment and Stroh failed to do any lasting damage,” Sasaki says. “The F.B.I. will handle any fall out on the Nebraska side and with Stroh dead, your case is closed too, Chief Johnson.” 

“Failed to do any lasting damage?” 

It’s Emma who screeches this, leaping to her feet, surprising everyone in the room. 

“Phillip Stroh has tried to kill Rusty numerous times! Has decimated what was left of his childhood, has removed him from the only stable home and loving guardian the boy has ever have and you’re saying because he didn’t sever an artery this time there’s no lasting damage?” 

Sharon rubs a hand against her chest, right between her collarbones and looks up at Emma, her eyebrows high. It’s a tic, a tell, and Sharon worrying her skin turns it pink, the blood rushing to the surface. 

“I didn’t mean to imply-”

Sharon doesn’t give Special Agent Sasaki the chance to explain. “When is he going to be here?”

Will glances at his watch. “About an hour,” he says. “Captain Raydor, obviously you can take the rest of the day. Lieutenant Provenza can oversee Major Crimes and report to Chief Taylor for the time being.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sharon says. 

“D.D.A. Rios,” Brenda says, feeling more warmth toward the woman than she ever has before. ‘Please stay and work with Special Agent Sasaki to wrap up whatever you need.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says. 

Everyone stands, Sharon doesn’t say anything, just heads for the door. Brenda hightails it after her, grabs her elbow in the hall.

“I’m going to the airport to wait,” Sharon says. 

“I know,” Brenda says. “I’ll go with you. I’ll drive.” 

Sharon nods, nods for too long, so long that Brenda squeezes her arm. 

“Hey,” Brenda says. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“I should’ve never, _never_ let him go,” Sharon says, her voice sounding low and rough like she’s about fourteen seconds away from crying. Brenda drags her toward the elevator and presses the button and feels like she’s won the lottery when the doors open right away. They get on and Sharon starts to sob just as the doors close. 

What can she do? It’s hard enough to be a high ranking female police officer without everyone thinking that women are crying messes, so she pushes the lobby button and then, when they’re between floors pulls the red knob and halts the elevator. Something buzzes for a moment, but it doesn’t last. The elevator is quiet except for Sharon’s wracking cries. 

“Honey,” Brenda says helplessly. 

Sharon tries to pull herself together, she does. Brenda can see it, how she gulps in air and holds her breath, how her fingers clench into fists at her sides, but the dam has broken and the cry comes out like air deflating from a balloon - slow and squeaky until she gives in and throws herself at Brenda. 

“Come on,” Brenda says. “This is good!”

“Good?” Sharon barks, managing to sound offending through her tears.

“Yes, good!” Brenda says. “Phillip Stroh, that mother fucker, is dead!”

Sharon pulls back enough to look at her and she looks surprised. 

“Well shit, Brenda,” she says, wiping at her face with her fingers. “I never hear you curse.” 

Brenda smiles and Sharon smiles a little too and it’s better.

“And Rusty is coming home! He’s coming home, Sharon!” Brenda says. “Right now!” 

“Yeah,” Sharon says. She shakes her hands a little , like she’s trying to shake it all off. Flaps them in the air and then jams them into her pockets. “Okay. Okay. Yes.”

“You ready?” Brenda asks. 

“Yes,” she says, blotting at her face one last time with her sleeves and then tucking her hands away again. “Go ahead.”

Brenda restarts the elevator.

“Don’t tell anyone I cried,” Sharon says sharply. 

“Perish the thought,” Brenda replies, trying not to smile. 

oooo

Brenda’s awake in the morning when Rusty comes out of his room. He’s still on the crutches and his face is still discolored but the swelling is pretty much gone. She thought he would look older, somehow, but he doesn’t. Just looks like Rusty and it’s kind of refreshing. 

“Oh,” he says, like he’d forgotten about her already. “Hi.”

“Hey,” she says. “How are you feelin’?” 

“Not dead,” he offers. “So pretty good, considering.” 

“That’s optimistic,” she says. She is out of her depth here. She’d offered to stay, wait around for him to wake up. She still has to go into work at some point today but she no longer has to drop everything when someone gets murdered and they had both agreed that he shouldn’t wake up from his first night back all alone.

They certainly hadn’t thought through to this point where he’d wake up, look around, and start to notice things not quite as he’d left them. 

“Where’s Sharon?” he asks. It comes out like a demand and he must hear it too because he looks like he regrets it. “I mean…”

“She got called in real early this mornin’,” Brenda says. “All of Major Crimes did.”

“Nice to know some things never change,” he says. 

“You want some breakfast? Some coffee? You a coffee drinker?” she asks. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “Did you spend the night?”

“I did,” she says carefully. “Actually, we want to talk to you about that.” 

“About what,” he says, easing himself down onto the couch. He makes sure his crutches lean against the arm, don’t clatter loudly to the floor. And then he helps ease his leg up, his foot onto the coffee table. 

“About, um, about Captain Raydor and, uh, and me,” she says. 

Sharon and Rusty had been practically inseparable since he got off the plane yesterday but they’d almost never been alone. They’d gone downtown and then, once everything had been settled there, Sharon had taken him home with Brenda tailing right behind and it had been well into dinner time. They’d ordered a pizza and then Rusty had just wanted to go to bed and there hadn’t been a good time, exactly, to talk about what had transpired in L.A. while Rusty had been away. They’d talked about Omaha, mostly, and skirted around the issue of Stroh until Rusty had seemed to clam up, had said, “It doesn’t matter, it’s over,” and then not long after that, he’d gone to bed.

“I’ll try to schedule him to talk to Dr. Joe tomorrow,” Sharon had said. 

Brenda doesn’t know a lot about Sharon’s life with Rusty to be honest. She’d only seen them a few times together before Rusty had left and now Brenda and Rusty are sitting next to each other on the couch, looking at one another uncomfortably, trying to figure out if they both fit into Sharon’s little world. 

“Actually,” Rusty says, fishing a bottle of pills out of his pocket. “Do you think you could get me some water?”

“Of course,” Brenda says, grateful for the reprieve. She fills a glass with the filtered pitcher from the refrigerator, sets it on the coaster on the side table that holds the lamp. He opens his pills and puts one in his mouth, drinks some water. 

“Thanks,” he says. “Okay, so you and Sharon.”

“Me and Sharon,” she says.

“I gotta say, Brenda,” he says. “I’m impressed you guys didn’t manage to ruin everything while I was gone.”

“What?” she asks.

“You two being friends,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d manage it.”

They hadn’t really. Brenda wants to laugh, wants to cry. How would things have gone if Rusty hadn’t left? Would she have come back from Atlanta? Would she have ever found herself in Sharon’s bed? Would she have stayed married to Fritz until his heart gave out and would Sharon have even come to his funeral? Would she have put on her uniform in Brenda’s bedroom, twisted her hair up into something beautiful and put her hand on Brenda’s shoulder over the back of a wooden pew?

It’s a terrifying thought - life without Sharon. 

“Well,” she says. “I… shoot, she should be here, I think. For this.” Brenda frowns at him, unsure how to continue. 

“Just spill it,” he says. “I mean, like, I’ve had a shit week so it’s not going to get any worse, right?”

“I live here now,” Brenda blurts. 

Rusty blinks at her for a few moments, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Oh,” he says. “But I thought… You’re married!”

“No,” Brenda shakes his head. “While you were gone, uh… Fritz passed away.” 

“Oh my god,” Rusty says, sitting up. “Oh my god, Brenda, I’m so sorry.” 

“Thank you,” she says. “You know, Rusty, you were gone and your mama - I mean, Sharon, she was really out of sorts over it and then things at my house… that is to say, things with Fritz…” She doesn’t want to come clean about Fritz, about how she’d already left. “So we just decided to keep each other company,” she finishes lamely. 

“Cool,” Rusty says. “That’s… she didn’t mention that in her emails. About your husband.”

Brenda feels a flood of adrenaline and worry and then he looks like he knows he screwed up.

“What emails?” she demands. “You two weren’t supposed to be talkin’!” 

“It wasn’t how he found me! I mean, it couldn’t have been!” he says. “And it was my fault. I made a burner account, I emailed her. We never used names, we never talked about what happened. It was just… it was just hi, I’m okay, I love you. Stuff like that!” 

“Rusty,” she says, helplessly. She’s not mad at him, no, she’s surprised at Sharon, mostly. For replying to him, for keeping it a secret. For willingly breaking a rule. “She knows better than that!”

“I just thought I might never get to come back here and so, like, I didn’t want her to forget me or think that I didn’t think about her.” Rusty cowers a little and her heart breaks for him - he’s still so much a boy and is so used to the worst sort of punishment.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.” 

“What’s yours?” he asks.

“Sharon and I,” she starts and then changes her mind and says “Me and Sharon are like…” But that doesn’t feel right either and it’s hard to know where to go so she tries again, “Sharon is…”

“Brenda!”

“I haven’t been sleepin’ in your room,” she spits. Heat crawls up her neck and face and she looks down at her hands, her empty fingers, the clear polish on her nails. She thinks about Sharon’s fingers, her small wrists, the little watch that she wears with the face of the clock against the inside where her skin is the most pale and Brenda can see the blood flowing underneath. It seems ridiculous to be in love with someone’s wrist, someone’s painted toes, to be in love with how Sharon’s hips flare out before turning into unending leg, but Brenda feels sick with it. Sick with her love. She can’t control it and boy, has she tried. 

She doesn’t look up until she hears Rusty say, “Oh.” She’s glancing up just as he says, “ _Oh_!” 

Brenda bites her lip and thinks longingly of her office at work. She knows there’s still a Twix bar in there from before all this leave and she’s going to eat it first thing. Sharon never has any sweets in the house and she’s already eaten all the stuff she’d squirreled away in hiding places. 

“So you mean,” Rusty says uncomfortably. “Like, you mean you and she are, um. Like… together?” 

Brenda nods. “But this is your home, Rusty, so if you’re uncomfortable with anything you should tell us. I can find a place.”

“But you were married,” he says. “And so was she. To dudes.”

“I know,” Brenda says. “It was unexpected.”

“Sharon?” he says. “Our Sharon? So Catholic that she stayed married to _Jack_ for thirty years Sharon?”

Brenda shrugs. “The very same.” 

“Sharon??”

“Starting to hurt my feelings there, kiddo,” she says.

“Sorry, no,” he says. “I’m just… surprised. Maybe I rubbed off on her. Maybe my superpower is transferring the gay.” 

“For heaven’s sake,” Brenda says. “Look-”

“I’m kidding,” Rusty says with a smile.

“Good,” Brenda says. “Good.”

“You have to go to work, right?” he says, offering her an out. 

“Yes,” she says. “Are you going to be okay here alone?”

“Yes,” he says. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, but you’re injured and, I mean, I could call in, I guess…” She can’t really, it’s her first day back. 

“Just go,” he says. “I don’t need a third mom, Brenda.” 

“Okay,” she says. “I know Sharon wants to talk to you about everything and she’s gonna be better at it than I am.”

“When is she going to be home?” he asks.

“As soon as she can,” Brenda says.

“Which means you have no idea,” he translates.

She points at him with her finger and makes a little clicking noise, her tongue against her teeth.

“Right,” she says.

oooo

Sharon shows up at Brenda’s office, something she has never done before. 

When Brenda hears the knock at her office door, she’s still trying to triage her email inbox even though she’s been here two and a half hours already. Just deleting the stuff she doesn’t have to read and looking at the most urgent things has taken her this long. She hasn’t even attempted to go through the middle of the road emails that are important but not currently on fire. So when the knock comes, Brenda is happy enough for an interruption of any kind. 

It’s her assistant, Carrie, who sticks her head in without opening the door all the way and says, “You have an unscheduled visitor.” 

“I don’t care if it’s the devil himself, let ‘em in,” Brenda says, sitting up. 

“It’s that police woman, Captain Raydor,” Carrie says. The capable assistant that had served the man who had previously held her job had left along with him and so Brenda and Carrie are still sort of breaking each other in. She’s smart enough, but naive and Brenda has to remind herself that Carrie is just one person after several years of having an entire squad to do her bidding. It’s been a couple years now and Carrie is fine, Brenda will keep her on, but she realizes that she never opens up about her personal life, so in moments like these, Carrie must feel awfully adrift. 

“Sharon is family,” Brenda says. “She’s never gonna need an appointment, okay?”

“Got it,” Carrie says, pushing the door all the way open. Brenda can see Sharon standing a few steps behind her trying not to smirk and failing miserably at it. Sharon is wearing a suit today, navy slacks and blazer with a stark white blouse underneath and it’s cut so well, she’s all leg and pretty hair and smart glasses. 

God, Brenda’s got it bad. 

Sharon closes the door behind her and leans against it. 

“She’s cute,” she says.

“She’s a baby,” Brenda retorts. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Squads out and I was going to go home and check on Rusty,” she says. “But I stopped here first.” 

“I see that,” Brenda says. “Who knew you even knew where my office was?”

Brenda is surprised that Sharon had stopped to see her, honestly, with Rusty at home. She’s still nursing a secret worry that now that Sharon has her son back, her little maternal project, that she might not need Brenda anymore. Sharon hasn’t said anything of the sort, but she’s here now, looking across at the office at Brenda like she needs to get something off of her chest and Brenda’s palms start to sweat. 

“Well,” Sharon says.

“What are you really doin’ here?” Brenda demands. Sharon drops into one of the chairs across from Brenda’s wide desk. The desk is too big for her, too masculine, but it seemed like a petty detail when she started the job and now she’s stuck with it. 

“Rusty texted me,” Sharon says. She makes a big show of pulling her phone out, tapping at the screen and then looking down through her glasses to read, “ _Measuring the windows for rainbow curtains_.”

Brenda snorts. 

“And then,” Sharon says dryly. “ _Anything else you want me to touch? Want me to gay up the neighborhood a little_?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Brenda defends. “He asked me what I was still doin’ there, basically!” 

“We were going to tell him together,” Sharon says.

“All my clothes are in his room!” she says. “Who knew when you were gonna come home!”

She’s not really mad, Brenda can tell. But Sharon purses her lips, tucks her phone away and is very clearly thinking about how she wants to say whatever is going to come out next. 

“What if this doesn’t work?” she settles on finally. 

“What if it does?” Brenda says back. “I mean, that’s the gamble in any relationship. Friends, lovers, anything.” 

“That’s true, but,” Sharon shakes her head. “I’m not saying I don’t want it to work, Brenda.” 

“Listen,” Brenda says, putting up her hands. All she can do is concede defeat and hope that Sharon doesn’t accept it. But she’s not going to force herself on anyone. “When we decided that I was gonna stay it was because of my bad marriage and your bein’ alone. Now Rusty is back and Fritzy is gone so if you... “ It’s hard to get it out past the lump in her throat. “I don’t have to stay, Sharon, I don’t.”

“Honey,” Sharon says. “I didn’t mean… I literally meant what if you decide you miss sex with men.” 

Brenda blinks. 

Sharon tries not to smile and then giggles a little. 

“This surprise visit was about penises?” Brenda says. “Jesus! You scared me!”

“Well!” Sharon says. 

“If I start missin’ it we can just buy a cock, Sharon, Jesus Christ! I thought you were breakin’ up with me!” 

Brenda folds her arms on her desk and drops her face into them, her heart racing. Sharon’s laughter fills the office and Brenda is mad but not that mad because it’s obvious that Sharon is actually happy. Happy with Brenda, happy with Rusty. The nervous, crying woman from yesterday’s elevator ride is gone and she seems lighter, somehow. Brenda looks up to see Sharon still smiling, her eyes crinkled up at the corners and her hair falling just so over her shoulder.

“I love you,” Brenda says softly. “I’m real sorry, but I just do.”

Sharon shakes her head a little and says, “Why would you be sorry about that?”

“Because it makes Rusty right,” she says. “We really are the gayest unit in the building now.” 

Sharon bites her lip and shakes her head. “Come here, Brenda.” 

Brenda stands and so does Sharon and they hug, tucking their chins into each other’s shoulders like they do when their shoes are just the right height to even them out. Sharon takes a deep breath and murmurs, “I suppose I’m supposed to say it back, now?”

“Only if you mean it,” Brenda says. “I know I’m not easy to love.” 

“Bullshit,” Sharon says, breaking the hug so she can look at Brenda. “Falling in love with you was so easy that I did it without even thinking about it.”

Brenda leans in and steals a little kiss. 

“Why Captain Raydor,” she says. “You’ve made me as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine.”

Sharon frowns. “What?”

“Even if you are a yankee,” Brenda says before leaning in for just one more kiss.

oooo

Brenda’s not sure what makes her open the door so quietly except for she knows they’re both home - where else would Rusty be and she saw Sharon’s car downstairs - and she isn’t sure what she’s going to be walking into. So she eases open the door slowly and peeks in, walking as quietly on her heels as she ever has before. 

She sees them as she rounds the corner. The television is on and they’re both on the couch sitting close, their heads dipped together like they’re sharing secrets. Sharon lifts her arm and wraps it around Rusty’s shoulders and drops a little kiss onto his head. It’s sweet and gentle and familiar and Brenda wonders nervously if she is ever going to fit in here or if she’s going to just be an addition they learn to adapt to. 

But she hears Sharon stage whisper, “She’s home” and so maybe Brenda wasn’t so quiet after all.

“And that is my cue to go to bed,” Rusty says, using his crutches to leverage himself into a standing position. 

“Oh, no, you don’t have to run off,” Brenda says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your time together.”

“No,” Rusty says. “It’s just she’s been sitting here gushing about you for like an hour and now she’s probably gonna kiss you and while I’m super into your love or whatever, I’m not ready to witness it first hand.” He smiles at her as he swings his body down the hall. “Night ladies. Use protection.” 

Sharon sits on the sofa with her face hidden in her hands. 

“Was he always this mouthy?” she asks, though the words are somewhat muffled through her fingers.

“Yes,” Brenda says. She sits next to Sharon and rubs her between her shoulder blades. “Gushin’ about me, huh?”

“Just trying to convince him I’m not having a late mid-life crisis,” she says, finally taking her hands away.

“Maybe we both are,” Brenda says bumping her shoulder into Sharon’s. Sharon nudges her back. “I could think of worse things. At least this crisis has benefits.”

“Oh?” Sharon says. “Such as?”

“We’ve basically doubled our wardrobe,” Brenda says. “I mean it’s not a perfect fit, but there is a lot of crossover.”

“For you, maybe. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I pull from the Old Navy cardigan section of your wardrobe,” Sharon says. “What else?”

“Gonna let that slide for now,” Brenda says. “To point out that relations between the L.A.P.D. and the D.A.’s office have never been smoother.”

“Yes, we have learned to play well with each other,” Sharon says. 

“Not to mention,” Brenda says leaning in close to Sharon’s ear. “The sex ain’t bad, either.” 

Sharon’s tongue darts out to moisten her bottom lip and Brenda’s eyes track it.

“You do make some convincing arguments, Chief,” Sharon says. 

Brenda doesn’t think kissing Sharon will ever get old. She can’t imagine ever tiring of the feeling of Sharon’s hair between her fingers, of the sweet smells of her shampoo and moisturizer mixing with warm skin, of how she always tilts her head just a little before opening her mouth and slipping her tongue into Brenda’s mouth. Sharon is so guarded in everyday life but she kisses like a free woman with nothing to lose.

Over at the desk, Sharon’s phone starts to buzz and then ring - the strummy harp strings that pull Sharon away from her. She smiles apologetically, quick as a burst of light, and stands to move over to the desk. 

“Captain Raydor,” she answers, her hand on her hip. “Okay. Yes. Twenty minutes.” She taps her phone and curls her fingers around it. “I have to go.”

Brenda smiles at her. “I know.” 

“Sorry,” she says already gathering up her purse and her jacket, her phone in her pocket and her keys by the door. “Hopefully not too late.”

“Either way,” Brenda says. “We’ll be here.” 

oooo

“So that’s it then?” Brenda whispers as the applause dies down and the house lights brighten enough for people to see. People start to rise, talking to one another. Brenda sees more than one person wipe their eyes. “She’s dead?”

Sharon is one of them, dabbing at her cheeks with a tissue. It must be doubly hard for her - Emily is not only a wonderful dancer but Sharon’s daughter.

“It’s only intermission,” Sharon says. 

“Yeah but-”

“Giselle comes back in the second act as a Wilis,” Sharon says. “Do you want to get some wine? Go to the restroom?”

“No, I wanna stay here,” Brenda says feeling impatient. She’s not completely uncultured but she’s never put much effort into things like going to the theater, the opera, the ballet and these are things that Sharon seems to know all about. Brenda wants that knowledge, is hungry for it. She’s surprised at herself - she’s so used to being the smartest person in the room but here Sharon clearly outranks her and Brenda doesn’t feel at all threatened, just curious and desperate to learn. She loves Sharon and wants to know everything about what Sharon loves. “What’s a Wilis?”

Sharon smirks, clearly amused but tucks her tissue away and takes Brenda’s hand. “The Wilis are the spirits of women who had been jilted in love and left at the altar. They come back and haunt their ex-lovers, forcing them to dance to their own deaths.” 

Brenda nods. “That seems reasonable,” she says. “I’d haunt you if you left me.”

Sharon smiles, squeezes her fingers. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

“So we get to see Emily dance again,” Brenda says. 

“Yes,” Sharon says. “But she’ll be exhausted so we’ll eat dinner on our own after and see her in the morning.”

“I can’t believe the boys didn’t come,” Brenda says, looking around the theater at the other people still in their seats - the finery and the sparkle of the ballet in New York City. Sharon, of course, fits in well. Her hair is perfect and glossy and she wears all black and looks like she could pass for a New Yorker. Brenda feels silly in her purple dress and her brightly colored coat across her lap. But Sharon had called her pretty and is watching her now as she looks around, Brenda can feel it. 

“They can catch the matinee tomorrow,” Sharon says. “Let them have their fun.”

Brenda nods and turns back to look at Sharon, still feeling inadequate and out of place. Is this what Fritz had felt like with her? Always struggling to keep up, always wondering if he was about to be left behind?

“Brenda,” Sharon says, her voice low. Brenda glances at her mouth before meeting her eyes. Her lips are the most perfect, deep red and if they were alone…

“Hmm?” she says.

“Thank you for indulging me this evening,” Sharon says. “I hope you’re not bored.”

“Bored?” Brenda exclaims. “How could I be bored? It’s all so beautiful.” 

Sharon looks so pleased when Brenda says this that she feels like maybe, just a little, she can relax. They’re both having fun, both here together. That’s all Brenda really wants anyway. They could be sitting on a bus or in an office or waiting out rush hour traffic and she wouldn’t mind as long as Sharon was there, too. 

She’s just so, so in love. All the love in her heart, it’s too much to handle and she pulls Sharon’s hand, still in hers, up to her lips and kisses her knuckles. 

Above them, the big chandelier starts to flicker and flash. Intermission is coming to an end.

“Here we go,” Brenda says as the lights dim. 

“Here we go,” Sharon whispers back.


End file.
